Marking Rites
by Nightmarescribe
Summary: Volkregians aren't born with their face markings; their Clans bestow them. Peel back the years, and watch young Razer undergo his *Marking Rites*.


**Marking Rites**

The smoky torchlight threw wild, threatening shadows across the rough stone cavern walls. Elder Torill held the flickering brand high, and led the file of unmarked Volkregian boys into the depths of the ground. On either side of the youths marched the adult men of their Clan, silent and solemn, warding the children on the way to their destinies, and fiercely baring their gleaming fangs at any hint of hesitation. Snatches of drumming blended with the Elder's wordless chant; the sound of the rhythms waxing and waning as drafts whipped the sound through the tunnels and flutings of the raw rock.

The thickly furred hide and head of the ferocious Ulfir, or lion-wolf, shrouded the elder's upright back as the adolescents followed him, blinking in unruly splashes of light that pooled and just as quickly melted back into the darkness. The initiates wore only loincloths, and huddled in itchy hides of prey animals against the cool damp of the caves. The men wore similar garb, and their sacred knives, under long cloaks of leather that whispered against the rock formations.

Young Razer shivered, not as much from the cold as from apprehension; his stomach roiling within. He and the other initiates fasted for a month during the waking hours of the night to prepare for the Rites. Allowed only small meals of unleavened bread, boiled grains, and leaves along with water during the burning hours, he would have killed for a piece of meat. The growling stomachs of the boys around him quietly punctuated the Elder's song, and Razer could see he wasn't the only one feeling out of sorts. This journey was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Theirs was an advanced people, technological; this barbaric reversion to their tribal state intended to connect the youths to their people's heritage.

He pulled his kine skin closer to him as he caught a quick flash of teeth from Laran. He frowned, because the other boy was a notorious joker who didn't seem to know the meaning of the word 'appropriate'. He let a bit of distance form between them, and was glad he did, as with the renewed sound of hungry stomach growling, Laran made a show of lifting a leg to let out a burst of flatulence. Muffled giggles burst out around him, quickly silenced as two of the men grabbed Laran's arms and slammed him against the tunnel wall. They didn't speak; they just bent to his level and growled with menacing threat at the jester's frightened face.

The lighting stabilized as the Elder paused, looking back at the offender. With the torch still held above him the Ulfir mask threw Torill's face in deep shadow; only the glint of his eyes showed beneath the mouth of jagged fangs. He gravely shook his head, and in his lightheaded state Razer's vision swam, and it seemed to him that it was truly their totem hill beast disapproving, and not Torill. Laran dropped his gaze and turned his head away, exposing his throat. The men released Laran, and gave him a brusque shove to rejoin the others.

Leading the way once more, the Elder continued until he briefly disappeared around a tight bend, and the boys stumbled to a halt as they rounded it, in a roughly round chamber with the giant head of an Ulfir carved into the living stone, toothy jaws gaping wide. Torill stood still until all the party reached the chamber, the boys huddled before him and the men lining the back.

"Behold, our Clan beast, the Ulfir," he said, the first words spoken since they entered the sacred caves. "Give him honor." He sank down on one knee and bowed his head deeply to the stone lion-wolf, and behind the youths, the men did the same. Raggedly Razer and the boys followed suit. "To be one with him," Torill said, "you must first be _devoured_ by him, little cattle. We, who follow his path, may walk another way, but you must pass through his gullet." With that, he snuffed out the brand, leaving only dim fiery glows from the carved eyes and open mouth. "Now, Crawl!"

Awkwardly Razer shuffled to the gaping mouth on his boney knees with the others, carefully navigating between the stone fangs. He squirmed through the dark narrow passage, skin crawling at the feel of cold slime smearing on his exposed limbs as he fought his way to the end. There was only darkness on the other side of the stone gullet until the last of them made it through. Then heavy curtains swept open to reveal a larger, fire-lit chamber. Some of the men ran in among them with sharp whistles, as if rounding up the herds, pushing and dragging them into the new room, and into a rough line.

"Come along, little cattle," the Elder shouted, "and give up your skins. It is time to inspect the meat!" Razer looked down at himself as his eyes adjusted to the light of the warm chamber, and flinched, aghast. His body dripped with smears of bloody burgundy; and looking at his fellows was like viewing the scene of a massacre. One by one, the men drew the initiates forward, pulling their hides and loincloths away. Buckets of water splashed over each of them, washing off the ominous color, and then were subjected to a close examination. When it was Razer's turn, he fought the urge to cover himself with his hands as they noted the changes that puberty was making to his body. After his exam, he caught the blanket thrown to him to quiet his clattering fangs.

When the elders had examined them all, the boys gathered with their blankets around the fire to soak up the warmth, and for the first time could look around them. Primitive pictures of animals and hunting men lined in chaotic array over the walls, and flowed over the domed ceiling. A raised ledge around the room was host to the drummers they had been hearing throughout the tunnels. Some of the men who'd warded them took up the chanting, adding harmonies and words to the tunes. The songs told of the myths of the Ulfir, telling its story from the dawn of time, and the beginning of the Clan.

Shallow bowls were passed around to the boys, and a large urn of water and a steaming kettle brought near. Torill crouched by them, and his eyes swept over them, commanding their attention. He dipped a bowl into the water, and brought it to his mouth, then began to lap it up with his tongue. He raised his head, droplets dripping from his chin, and said, "Drink." Razer thirstily lapped at the water, as did most of the others. One of the smaller boys, a lightly tanned day walker named Horem, put his lips on the edge so he could sip, and had his bowl cuffed away by a growling man, dashing the water over him and the ground. Horem trembled, and cautiously picked up his bowl under the watchful gaze of the man who had disapproved. He dipped for more, which he dutifully lapped.

Razer's nose itched from the acrid smell from the kettle. It smelled like the same bitter herbs and boiled grains he'd been swallowing all month, and he thought he'd retch if he had to have another bite. The Elder gave them a sly smile, and offered them the kettle. "Are you hungry, little cattle? Then eat." Razer shook his head, swallowing down his gorge. Hungry as he was, he'd only eat more if they forced it down his throat. The Elder had no takers, and he rocked back on his haunches. "No? Then maybe you aren't cattle after all."

He lifted a hand, and one of the men led in a bull-kine, tugging it along by a long sharp horn. Torill rose to stand and put the kettle down before the beast's nose. The ruddy bull snorted softly, and lowered its head to slurp up the warm mash. "Come on little ones, look at him, and touch. Is he not magnificent?" He slapped the muscular withers, and patted roughly along the solid sides of the eating beast. The boys clustered around, touching the animal, a few of them having to be warned away from the sturdy rear legs and twitching tail. "We of the Ulfir are not farmers, we are hunters and herders. We do not eat leaves; we eat those that do. But we must pay our respects to the prey, because it is from them we fill our bellies."

The men shooed the boys away from the kine, and the Elder moved up to the animal's shoulder, stroking the hanging neck wattles as it shoved the kettle this way and that, licking out the last of the food. It lifted its head, working its jaws. One of the men took away the kettle, replacing it with a shallower container. The kine looked down, but lost interest when it saw there was nothing more. Torill fondly rubbed the animal's ear, and its eyes closed in contentment, just before his keen knife slit the great veins in its throat. Dark purple blood gouted out from the bull's fatal wound, mostly into the catch pan. The Elder's burly arm clamped around the thick neck as it bellowed and thrashed, then sank down to the ground with a groan.

Wide eyed, Razer watched the kine's sides heave for a few more gurgling breaths, and then finally stilled. He had never been so close to anything that died before. Just a moment before the tame kine was healthy and alive, and now, it was merely cooling meat. "Nothing in the world lives without something else having to die," Torill said, his hand still on the great horned head. "The cattle eat the plants for their nourishment, and we eat the cattle for ours." He stood and nodded to the men, who skinned and gutted the beast as it lay before them. Razer swayed and swallowed hard, for the first time glad his belly was empty.

"Since you are not cattle, perhaps you are hunter cubs?" Torill said with a questioning tone. He squatted by the carcass, and dug his talons into the revealed loin and flank muscles, ripping out a bloody chunk of raw flesh, and holding it out towards the boys. "Are any of you hungry? Come and eat like a lion-wolf." There was a hesitation, and then the biggest of the Initiates came over to the Elder. Arton reached for the meat, and quickly snatched his hand back when Torill growled at him. The boy covered up his trembling by brushing his shoulder length white hair back from his face. "Ulfir cubs don't have hands, boy; get on all fours, and use your fangs." Arton sucked in a breath, grimacing, and then hunkered down and bit the chunk out of the Elder's hand.

The piece of meat was too big to swallow whole, and when he started to raise a hand again, Torill pinned it to the stone with a large bare foot. "No. Hands," the Elder growled. Arton started chewing the part within his mouth, crushing it with his molars and swallowing scraps as he worried them loose. Dark blood and saliva dripped down his chin, splattering the floor, as he shook the meat in his teeth to make it easier to break up and swallow. The Elder laughed heartily. "Ah, there's a hungry cub!" He ripped out another chunk of meat, "Anyone else?" Razer was moving on hands and knees before he knew it. Somehow, the smell of the meat and Arton's noisy chewing turned the carcass from nausea inducing to _food_ in his mind. He sank his fangs into the flesh offered him and crawled to the side to let others get theirs.

There was simply no clean and dignified way to eat meat like this. Raw muscle fibers burst under his sharp teeth, releasing the blood contained within, which flowed richly down his throat. He moaned in pleasure, because raw or not, it had been _so long_ since he had tasted meat. When he swallowed the last of it, he licked his mouth and chin as clean as he could manage and looked for more. The others in turn each had their morsel, and turned back to the Elder expectantly. He nodded in satisfaction, and gestured them over to another Elder. "If you cubs are to become men, then you must be shorn. Only children have untrimmed hair."

Healer Sorun nodded at Arton, and the boy's face quickly mopped with a wet towel, then the Elder looked searchingly at him. He lifted a blade and shaved the sides of the youth's head close, revealing the dark under hairs, but leaving a crest of pale gray overhair from his forelock to where the hair on the very back of his head flowed down to his shoulders in a wolf tail. Laran was next, and received a trim and an exaggerated widow's peak, as from his forehead streaks of white overhairs were shaved away to create dark spears that went from his temples to well past his pointed ears. Razer got a bowl cut after his trim; the top of his head left shaggy and white while the sides and back trimmed dark. When it was over, the boys were still getting used to their newly mature looks when the smell of roasting kine wafted over to them.

Torill sat cross-legged by the fire, where men held chunks of meat over the fire on sticks. The initiates gathered near him and watched the fat sizzle and drip into the flames. "Much better," the Elder said after looking them over. "Maybe you are not cubs, maybe... you are men?" He poked at the coals with a stick. "When our ancestors rose up on two legs, they gained the use of hands and learned to master fire. If you are still hungry little men, quickly snatch your meat from the flames and eat. A mere beast would not dare them, but a man knows the limits of the fire."

This time Razer acted first, sweeping his talons swiftly through the open flames at the skewered meat, yanking it off the stick. He hissed at the slight singe he got, but the taste of the roasted flesh quickly took his mind off the sting. Using his hands to hold and pull on the chunk was much easier to manage than the last piece he'd eaten. As he finished the meat, he accepted a long strip of cloth from one of the men. Little Horem used the middle of his to clean his face again, and then draped it over his bare shoulder. Razer looked at his cloth, then wiped his grease smeared face on a corner and used the strip to clothe his loins again. It felt better not to be naked anymore, and the other initiates quickly followed his example.

"Razer, is it? Clever boy, you are first to clothe yourself." Torill put a hand on his shoulder, and looked at the others. "Men know how to alter what is around them for their advantage. As a reward, Razer gets first choice of knife." Razer straightened up at the praise, but didn't miss the sullen look Arton gave him. As the biggest and most aggressive, the other boy considered himself 'alpha' or leader amongst his age-mates. Razer didn't contest the other boy's posturing, as he considered it meaningless as a measure of identity or worth.

An adult celebrant opened a roll of cloth before them, revealing a wide variety of knives, daggers, and dirks held in place by loops. They were all different lengths, shapes and sizes. Some had hilt guards, or heavy pommels, while others didn't. Razer looked them over, as the Elder spoke again. "These knives are made from the metal of sacred knives once held by Clan members who have since passed into the Ulfir packs among the stars. One day, the metal of these knives will be reforged anew to be chosen by boys not yet born." He looked down and ruffled Razer's hair. "Take your pick boy. Choose the one that speaks to you."

The knives all were beautiful; shiny, sharp, and full of promise. Nevertheless, there was one his eyes kept returning to. The blade itself was a reverse teardrop, the rounded end against the guardless hilt and stretching to an elongated point. Runes ran along the bottom edge, and just after them, a bold hook cut out in the widest part of the teardrop. He freed it from the loops and weighed it in his hands, swinging it a bit in practice cuts into the air. He bared his sharp teeth in a pleased smile, and looked up to Torill. "I choose this one."

Torill nodded. "It suits you. Return to Healer Sorun, little hunter. It is time to receive your Mask." He gestured to the black patches around each of his eyes. Razer walked back across the room, holding the bared blade carefully beside him. He sat at a gesture from the Healer, looking at the supplies the man was setting up, and then noticed as leatherworker Chirang eyed him, choosing a belt and threading the sheath for Razer's knife onto it. Razer fastened the belt around him, and settled the weapon at his side.

Sorun handed him a towel. "The Hunter's Mask is meant to protect your sensitive eyes from glare while you hunt. Hold the cloth beneath your eyes, and then open them as wide as you can. I'm going to put drops in your eyes to gum them shut for a time; now hold still." The drops tingled a little and Razer blinked a few times before his lids stuck fast together, leaving him in darkness. "Don't try to open them," Sorun said. "In my grandsire's day, the Hunter's Mask was given by tattooing, and every so often would blind a boy. We have a better way to give them now." Razer felt something soft, like a small paintbrush swipe over his eyelids, depositing a pungent smelling liquid that first burned then cooled to an icy chill as a deep pain sank into the tissues. The brush then moved wider, painting in the hollows of his eye sockets, trailing frozen fire behind it.

He hissed, clenching his teeth, but doing his best not to flinch away from the brush. He could hear other boys settling around him; the whisper of leather as they got their belts, and the gasps and whimpers as they encountered the brush. After a bit he felt Sorun's hand steady his chin, and received another coat of the liquid. Razer felt the same heat as before, but the ache wasn't so bad this time. The healer moved on, to return and paint a final time when the second coat had dried. "Feel any stinging this time?" Sorun asked from above him.

"No, Elder," Razer said softly.

The healer grunted, and pulled the first towel from him. A warm, sopping wet towel was laid over his eyes. "This will soak up the excess dye, and ungum your eyes. Let it sit for a while, then dab until your eyes fully open and no more color comes off." Razer nodded, and sighed as the moist heat eased the residual pain. He felt his eyelids loosen, and blinked and rubbed until he could see, and no more of the dye could be wiped off. Around him, the last few boys were getting their third painting or were already rubbing their eyes. The shocking black of the Hunter's Mask, and the way their eyes disappeared when they blinked gave each a dignity that they had not possessed before now. Only one thing lacked for the achievement of their majorities; their clan marks. But before that, came the Vision Quests...

Torill came up to the initiates with a leather pouch. "Draw your lots, boys. You will undergo the Seeing Ceremony in groups of five." The boys nearest him drew their number, and the rest did in turn. Since the boys were showing their numbers, Razer did as well. His was a number four, and Arton gave a grin of triumph as he revealed his earlier number, a two. Razer rolled his eyes. Was it really so easy to make the bigger boy happy?

The chanting and drumming picked up in earnest, and sticks of heady incense burned around them. Making a quick head count, Razer calculated that his would be the last group and was one shy of being full. He'd have the opportunity to see what was going on a few times before he went through it himself. He watched as four other Elders wearing Ulfir skins joined Torill, and stretched out in a line across the room with large shallow bowls of water before them. Five assistants waited in readiness on the far side of the water vessels across from the Elders.

The first five boys came over to the assistants, who urged them to drink from leather bota bags, and from the way the boys sputtered and coughed the skins didn't contain mere water. After another swallow, the skins were taken from them, and the boys sat and swayed to the pounding music. They quickly showed signs of altered awareness, blinking and looking about dazedly. Thick metal headbands with an Ulfir face adornment were placed on them, and their heads drooped down as they slumped in their places. They seemed almost to sleep awhile, while the Elders looked into their scrying bowls and jotted down notes. When the Elders were ready, the crowns were removed, and when the boys roused, each quietly questioned as to what he'd experienced. Some of the notes were amended, and the first group of boys were led off to the side, still not steady on their feet.

The pattern held true for Arton's set, and the next group with Laran, and then it was time for Razer's group. He sat before Elder Nalak, and took a deep breath before taking two long choking swigs from the skin offered. Almost immediately, the room swam to his vision, and he could feel his blood leaping and dancing in his veins to the beat of the drums. Little by little, the world slipped away, until all he could see was the shaggy hill hunter crouched across from him. A heavy weight bowed his head and he heard a voice growl. "Look in the waters, and see what you are, and what you will one day be." He blinked and tried to focus on the water, seeing rippling concentric circles form and grow, crisscrossing the bowl.

He could see himself as from a great height, aloof, and set apart. He would hold himself away from his community as if he needed no one else, but would never quite leave the company of his fellows. At times, a few other figures would walk beside him on his life-path, but inevitably, he would end up alone once more. Sometimes external forces ripped his fellow travelers away from him, leaving him aching in loss, at others it was he, himself, who drove them away in wild fits of misplaced fury. The howling roar of the Ulfir pounded in his mind; raising a storm of blazing scarlet and misery, spawning eldritch bolts that struck out at himself, friends, and foes alike. He was panting, whining in pain before the storm seemed to lessen.

In the falling darkness and growing calm, three distant beacons shone, offering him a way out of his lonely madness. One beacon was the green of growing plants; one was blue, like the blossoms of the rambler rose. The third was the violet color of warm blood. Razer knew, without knowing how he knew, the only way to escape the raging of the storm that afflicted him would be to choose one of the three lights arrayed before him...

...It seemed he slipped asleep briefly. He came back to himself with tears streaking down his bare cheeks, the helper beside him holding his shoulders in a comforting hug. "It's alright, young Razer," the man said softly. "Sometimes the Ulfir gives us a heavy burden, but never more than we can bear." With an extra squeeze, the man released him, "Now tell the Elder what you saw." Numbly he recounted what he'd seen, forcing down the lump in his throat. Nalak looked down pensively at his notes, and nodded at his assistant. Razer was helped to where the others were recovering, and he huddled in his blanket, trying to master the dismay he felt at the ominous signs given him.

He barely noticed as gradually the figures around him left to receive their marks. When Torill came to collect him, there were only a couple of boys remaining. Once more, he was set before Healer Sorun. The man looked into his eyes, and checked his alertness. "You alright, there?" Razer nodded absently. "Your pattern needed some consultation to finalize, but I think we have an adequate translation. Now listen carefully." Sorun put a jar of dark paste in his hands that smelled strongly of astringents. "I will be cutting the marks into your skin, and you will rub a generous amount of this into the cut to stop the bleeding. This will sting. _A lot._ Do you understand?" He nodded again, straightening his back and setting his shoulders.

"Good boy. Now, last things first. Your way has revealed you as _The Man With Three Path_s. This is an auspicious reading for anyone to receive, and especially fortunate for you. Some men have but a single path, but you will have a choice of directions one day. These marks are to remind you of that." Setting a clean towel under Razer's chin, he lifted the blade to his jaw. "Stare straight ahead, and don't flinch." Razer felt the kiss of the blade, just under the center of his lower lip, and carving a path straight down. He swallowed hard again as he felt the blood start to flow. "Remember the paste!" He dug a finger into the stuff and drew it down the cut, from top to bottom. His eyes watered from his efforts not to cry out from the stabbing pain that felt worse than the cutting.

"Yes, just like that. Good." The hand moved and to one side of the previous cut, the keen edge bit again, drawing another line down, but angling slightly away from the first. After a pause while Razer smeared on the paste, then another cut angled the other way on the far side of the first mark. He applied the paste again, and fought to catch his breath. He drew a sigh of relief as his chin began to feel numb, evidently from an ingredient of the paste.

"Now, for the rest. You're smart enough to know the main part of your vision is... problematic. We had to do some head scratching to figure out how to convey it properly. Clearly, you are Storm Born, and that must figure in your marks, so here we put the lightning that comes _from_ you." The Elder wiped the blade clean, and raised it again. It kissed the bottom of his left eye mask, and drew down and out, with a jag to the middle of the line. Razer took a large smear of dark paste and rubbed it down his bleeding cheek, his breath hitching in a suppressed yelp. He met the elder's eyes, and gave a tiny nod. Swiftly and cleanly, the matching mark descended from his right eye mask, and sealed with paste from trembling fingers.

"Breath for a moment," Sorun said, with a grim smile. "You're a strong one, lad. I cried like a baby when I put on that gunk. Hurts, doesn't it?" Razer gave another small nod, and waited for the numbness to set in again. "We aren't done yet," the Healer said. "The vision showed that you are _struck by_ the lightning as much as you do the striking. We mark this truth on you like so." From his jaw, lines marched up in parallel jags to the previous cuts, aiming for, but not quite reaching, his Hunter's Mask. He sealed these cuts, glad that some of the numbness from the previous two blunted the stinging. Razer was eternally grateful when Sorun cleaned the blade and put it away, then took the jar of paste and touched up any spots still oozing blood. He closed his kit, and bowing his head to Torill, he went to go work on the remaining boys.

Torill sat next to him in silence for a long while, gazing into the fire. "You and the others will stay until you are fully recovered." The man sighed and continued, "Don't be afraid to ask about your visions; it's important to be comfortable with what you were shown." Razer couldn't help the disbelieving noise he made. How was he supposed to be comfortable _with_ _that_? "Razer, your path will be a difficult one, I'm afraid. Your destiny is to become _The Errant Storm_, harmful to others, as well as yourself. But you are also _The Man With Three Paths_, and one day you will find your true way."

"Elder, what does it mean, about the three colors? I know I must choose, but I don't understand."

Torill shrugged. "None of us do, not really. Not about your visions, or any of the others; not even our own. Only the passage of time can reveal what your truths really mean. I can tell you that the intensity of the vision will lessen eventually." He put a hand on Razer's shoulder. "Remember, Now that you are a man, you will never be required to tell anyone your sacred names, or just what your marks are intended to symbolize. That is between you and the Ulfir, understand?"

Razer nodded, because he _did_ understand. The vision of _The Errant Storm_ was an ill omen, even to himself. To have that name revealed would make his life harder than it was already foretold to be. He could only do his best as he lived his life, and try to make his way safely out of the storm to come.

_-fin_

_**Notes: (My Writing Jam: "Moody Blues - Journey into Amazing Caves")**_

_**Based on the canon reference about the Clan markings, from GL:TAS comic #4, also some knowledge of cultural anthropology, as well as Professor Joseph Campbell's **_**Hero's Journey**_**. For inspiration, I looked to Native American vision quests. I also assume that Volkregians are evolved from nocturnal carnivores, instead of evolved omnivores such as humans. Some Fanterns have created art showing Razer's blood being blue, but farm girl Ilana was far too Caucasian-tan for that to be true. So, I decided their blood is a purplish red, and those whose lifestyle causes them to be out often in the harsh sun darken from their natural chalky gray to a light tan. Oh, and Razer's sacred knife? It's the last one he puts on the table during the episode, "**_**Babel**_**".**_

_***'Kine' is a medieval word for cow, and 'cattle' in this sense means any sort of herd beast. 'Ulfr' is a Norse boy's name meaning 'wolf'.**_


End file.
